


Glory Obscured

by death_frisbee



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Locos Angst Off 2018, Ernesto is not great, Gen, Post-Canon, long talks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_frisbee/pseuds/death_frisbee
Summary: Years after that fateful Día de Muertos, Ernesto de la Cruz has reserved himself to an afterlife spent alone. But then, something happens.Someone knocks on his door.





	Glory Obscured

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Coco Locos Angst-Off 2018](http://babycharmander.tumblr.com/post/177259087605/the-coco-locos-angst-off)
> 
>  
> 
> Prompt: "You're the only family I have left."

                To be honest, he didn’t know how many years it had been. It certainly had been more than one—but two? Five? Thirty? They all bled together at this point. And this Día de Muertos passed like any other: the whole Land of the Dead enjoyed a vibrant, joyous holiday with visits home and time spent with family, and he was here, holed up in his beautiful, empty hacienda. If he wanted to, he could probably find an ofrenda with him _somewhere_ —after all, his bones were still snowy white, and let’s be honest, everyone loves a good villain.

                And, if these past few years were any indication, Ernesto was a _very_ good villain.

                But, really what was the point of milling about the living? There wasn’t anyone out there that he still cared about. Certainly not enough to bear the glares, whispers and even outright insults he’d endure heading all the way to the exit gates. So he stayed inside. His alebrijes were much better company than a bunch of strangers, anyway.

                After Día de Muertos, the days bled into each other again but—not too long after the holiday—something changed. Something interesting happened.

                There was a knock at the door.

                For a long time, he’d ignored any and all unsolicited contact. It wasn’t like there was any way to smooth over throwing a child off a ledge, and his agent had _always_ told him that silence was the best option in this sort of circumstance. But there hadn’t been a knock on that door for years. He was still tempted to wait for them to leave, but then something even _more_ interesting happened: a _second_ knock came.

                Well…it would break up the monotony, at least.

                Luckily, he still dressed to the nines—he’d always taken pride in his appearance, and being disgraced wasn’t about to stop him from that comfort—so all he needed was a quick smoothing back of his hair before he put on his best Ernesto de la Cruz smile and opened the door. He kept his smile up for a full minute before he recognized the skeleton on the other side of the door.

                Last time, he’d been completely caught off-guard not only by how ragged and brittle Héctor was, but by just how _different_ he looked without his skin. This time, he was struck by his manner. He stood tall—save for the little bit of a slouch he’d always had—and his face stayed composed as he met Ernesto’s eyes. If it weren’t for the way his fingers twitched, as if they were plucking at invisible strings, he might not have known that Héctor was nervous.

                A few years ago, Ernesto might have slammed the door in his old friend’s face, or spat out all manner of vitriol, asking if he was _happy_ how things were now, if he was _enjoying_ the fame that he’d won.

                But he was tired now. Too tired to fight, especially to fight a determined Héctor—he only faced issues head-on if it was important, and him coming up here _alone_ clearly showed this was important. So, rubbing his eyes with a long sigh, Ernesto kept the door open and asked, “What do you want?”

                Héctor took a deep breath, his eyes flicking between the doorframe and Ernetso’s face a few times before he finally spoke. “Do you remember, every year on my birthday, I set a goal for the year?”

                Ah. That’s what day it was. Ernesto didn’t respond, and Héctor continued.

                “I’m turning a hundred and twenty-five this year…”

                “ _Feliz cumpleaños.”_

                Héctor grimaced at the dry reply, but pressed on. “…and this seems like a good year for _answers._ ”

                _Ah._

                Ernesto’s first instinct was to shut the door in Héctor’s face, but he resisted. He couldn’t, though, figure out where to begin to think of excuses. He’d spent so long burying what he’d done, buring Héctor’s existence as thoroughly as his body, that he’d never even thought of how to excuse his actions. And because of that, he realized in one horrifying moment, whatever question Héctor asked would have to be met with _the truth._

                The best course of action, then, would be to scare Héctor away. So, feigning ease, he leaned in the doorway.

                “Does _your wife_ know you’re here?’ he asked, the same acid in his tone with the words as there had been over a century ago. On cue, Héctor straightened fully, immediately on the defensive. Looked like that part of him was still the same.

                “No, and that’s for _your_ sake.” Héctor’s pose relaxed again, and he lifted his chin defiantly. “Unless you want to be a cat toy again.”

                That was enough to shake Ernesto’s plan. It was hard to intimidate someone whose wife had an alebrije the size of a trolley and _deadly_ good aim. He winced, then gave a huff as he stepped back and gestured for Héctor to step inside. He could still get through this. Even after all this time, he knew Héctor. Once he got emotional, he would lose his cool, and Ernesto would have _no choice_ but to ask him to leave. Though, as he guided hector to the sitting room of his mansion, it seemed like there weren’t many buttons to push after murder, theft, leaving him to be Forgotten, and almost killing his great-great-grandson (twice).

                Honestly, he should have just shut the damn door.

                “I won’t offer you a drink,” he said dryly, dropping into one of the beautiful chairs beside the huge, empty fireplace. Héctor sat down lightly in the chair across from him, awkwardly adjusting the leather apron he wore. So. Now he was a shoemaker, too. Of course. That wife of his always commandeered his life.

                Ernesto shook his head and crossed his arms for a moment as he stared at Héctor. So. There really was no scaring him off, at least not before they talked. He should have known that scrap of mercy was too much for the universe to give him. He waved his hand.

                “So what do you want the answer to?” he asked, voice flat. “Why I murdered you? Why I stole your songs? _What,_ Héctor?’

                Héctor stayed quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers on his knee and staring hard at the floor. Maybe Ernesto’s bluntness had thrown him off. Maybe he’d realize he didn’t want these answers. Maybe…

                “Was that all our friendship was worth to you? An old notebook?”

                Ernesto froze, Héctor’s gentle bluntness catching _him_ off-guard. “Are you _stupid_?” he asked, cool exterior faltering. “Your music was…still _is_ the best in all of México!”

                Héctor suddenly looked very tired at Ernesto’s words, and his shoulder sagged slightly before he shrugged. “I just…I thought maybe after all we’d been through, _I_ was worth more to you than some scribblings.”

                Ernesto stared at Héctor, swallowing hard. He hadn’t had a throat in so long, but he could still feel the phantom sensation of it closing up and leaving him unable to speak. Hector’s eyes flicked up to him for a moment before he squared his shoulders and leaned forward.

                “I would have forgiven you for the songs— _even_ ‘Remember Me’. At the end of the day, they’re just words and…and _dots_ on paper. But…” Héctor’s jaw clenched—in life, he would have pressed his lips together—and he let out a shaking breath before he said, “I thought of you as my _brother._ ”

                “And you think I _didn’t_ think the same of you?”

                The words came out surprisingly cold and crisp, and he kept his face still as Héctor sat back, eyes wide. Ernesto blew a long breath out through his nasal cavity, eyes firmly fixed to the side, away from Héctor.

                “You want answers? You want the truth? Then I’ll start with this. You are the closest _…_ ” He shook his head. “You _are_ the only family I have left. The only person I’ve ever put my _whole_ trust in. The only person I have ever _wanted_ to spend years and years with hopping on trains and playing where we could. You meant _the world_ to me.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “But I _wanted_ the world, too. And so I had to sacrifice the only thing—the only _person_ —who meant that much to me.”

                His voice stayed even as he spoke; he’d live with this realization for decades, even before he’d died. He looked up at Héctor, waiting to see his reaction. Brown eyes darted over his face, his mouth opened for a split second before it shut. He looked as if he were searching for some kind of punchline to a cruel joke.

                “Is that…is that _really_ what you think?” Héctor swallowed, shaking his head as he fell back into stunned silence for a moment. “ _That_ was worth keeping me from going home? Some…some stupid idea of _bartering_ with…with God or the universe or _whatever_ for fame?”

                “I couldn’t have done it if you’d left,” Ernesto replied matter-of-factly, then rubbed one of his temples. “And, honestly, I don’t think I could have gotten the world even if you’d decided to stay.”

                He glanced up at Héctor, watching quietly as his head dipped forward, hands gripping his hair. He stayed still, then slowly began shaking his skull.

                “Ernesto, what _happened_ to you?” he finally asked, voice breaking, before he looked up. “You have to have _some_ shred of decency left in you. The…the Ernesto I grew up with was a good kid, a good _man._ ”

                “Was I? Or did you just want me to be and _made_ yourself see me as good?” Finally, a tinge of heat colored Ernesto’s words. He leaned forward, meeting Héctor’s eyes dead-on. “I know what kind of man I am, Héctor. I’ve known for a _very_ long time.”

                Héctor blinked, face starting to slacken back into weariness. “So that’s it for you?” he asked, a catch in his voice. “You can’t even manage some sort of… _apology_?”

                Ernesto shut his eyes with a long sigh. “You know, before your _great-great-grandson_ came along, I might have.” His mouth quirked up slightly. “I _would_ have. I would have given you the most beautiful apology. Because I _know_ that’s all you would have needed. If you hadn’t ambushed me on that Día de Muertos, if you’d come just a _little_ sooner _,_ I might have even gotten you to write a song or two with me before you were Forgotten. It’d be good press, wouldn’t it?” He opened his eyes, though he kept his gaze on the floor. “But I’ve had time to think since then. Being a social pariah gives you plenty of time to look back on everything you’ve done. And…why you did it.

                “The fact is, you still mean far too much to me to give you some empty apology just because that’s what you want to hear. You deserve better than that, Héctor. So the best thing I can give you is the truth. I can’t give you anything more than that.”

                Héctor stared at him, brown eyes wide and hurt. Ernesto had seen that expression hundreds of times while they were alive, and just once after they’d died. It was funny; he thought years of being Forgotten, of hearing bastardizations of his songs played everywhere would have hardened him.

                He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that his friend’s heart was still so soft.

                He gave a long sigh as he sank back in his seat. “Go home, Héctor,” he said, meeting Héctor’s eyes directly. “Go back to your family. Go back to the fame you deserve.” He gave a long sigh as he looked down at the rug at their feet. “Go _home_.”

                Héctor hesitated, then slowly got to his feet. Even without looking at him, Ernesto could feel Héctor’s stare on him.

                “One last question, Ernesto. Just one.” Once Ernesto nodded, Héctor took a deep breath and asked, “If you had the chance to go back, all the way back to that night you…we shared that drink, would you change _anything_?”

                Ernesto’s eyes flicked up to look at him. “After how everything’s gone?”

                “Yes.”

                “I wouldn’t even _hesitate_ to do it again.”

                Héctor took a deep breath, eyes wide, then slowly let it out as he sadly shook his head. He stuck his hands in his pockets, wilting slightly where he stood. “I guess…that’s all I needed to know.”

                Ernesto shut his eyes and said nothing more. He could feel Héctor lingering for a few moments more, but soon enough shoes clacked away on the marble floors. Eventually, in the distance, he heard the grand front door open and shut, leaving him alone again.

                He waited a moment, then got to his feet and walked over to the window. Below, the Land of the Dead glittered and pulsed with lights and pure joy, just as it did every other day. And he watched as a little figure below, gangly and still uncomfortable in his leather apron, disappeared back into the thriving world out there. Where he deserved to be. Where he belonged.

                Ernesto hadn’t been _quite_ honest with Héctor, despite everything. There was another bargain he’d made in order to gain the world. The _moment_ he’d entertained the idea of poisoning Héctor, he knew there’d be hell to pay. Maybe not immediately, maybe not for nearly a hundred years. But he’d always felt it, right on the edge of the horizon. A few years ago, his time had come, that was all. And Ernesto always knew when it was time to pay for his wrongdoings, for his ill-gotten gains.

                After all, he was a _very_ good villain.

                And even now, even after his catastrophic fall from grace and being mired in the depths of infamy, he _would not hesitate_ to do it all again.

                Not for a _second._


End file.
